I've noticed a few things as I've been reviewing this blog.
I usually post when I'm cold and unhappy in the dark of Winter, occasionally upset by current events. If I'm too upset, I don't post at all because I don't want Mom thinking I'm suicidal.
The fact is I was suicidal once, and I never will be again. I'm not chemically unbalanced, and my life is lived on the melancholy side of things. It doesn't bother me anymore. Not in a kill-myself way.
I do have an obsessive bent. Blogs topics focus on one thing for two weeks to a month and move on. Thankfully, I have the self-control to not obsess with money on a new thing. If I can hold off buying for one month, I usually snap out of it and move on. Things that stick with me longer than that are life habits. The Blood Type Diet (11 years this January), cats, excelling at my day job. Essential oils and "natural" living (like bone broth) are the newest at slightly over two years, but they've stuck.
I want to add "writing" to that list, but I've almost decided to give it up. It doesn't make me happy, and I've chronicled my growing aversion to the task over the last four years, using every excuse in the book for why I have trouble producing. On the other hand, I've written stories for most of my life, and perhaps one "season" where my writing happens more at work than at my home computer isn't a failure. And it has definitely been happening at work.
I'm not nearly as detailed as I thought I was in this blog-journal. In my quest to avoid unprofessional TMI, I've left even myself wondering what I'm referencing on some of these posts. Something was going on, but I can't for the life of me remember what the fuss was about. That's probably good. Do I really need to dwell on past unhappiness when I have a whole world of future unhappiness to anticipate?
Finally, I worry. A lot. That and pride are my big Jesus-working-on-it issues. They're kind of the same thing. Pride says I can control everything in my life. Worry says I control nothing. A kind of inner tornado that never lets me rest.
Ah, well. If I were perfect, I wouldn't still be single.
Push button. Receive bacon.